


A Proper Reunion

by Minuial_Nuwing



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Post-Battle, Some Humor, Third Age, battle reference (non-graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3314195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minuial_Nuwing/pseuds/Minuial_Nuwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final battle is raging.  Against all odds, Legolas keeps his promise - and then demands his reward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Proper Reunion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alpha_ori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_ori/gifts).



> Written for Alpha_Ori in the MSV 2015 swap in response to this request: _Legolas/elf or elves; a battle, boots_
> 
> A/N: As so often seems to happen with my swap fics, this one has its roots in a drabblet written eons ago. If you would like to hear Legolas make the promise he managed to keep - by the skin of his teeth and with a little help from his friends *g* - the original drabblet is here: [Final Hurdle](http://minuial-nuwing.livejournal.com/206803.html)
> 
> Beta: The incredible Fimbrethiel - any remaining mistakes are all mine
> 
> ******************************

Legolas ducked as the curved blade swung over his head and then stabbed upward with his left-hand knife, sparing a moment to relish the expression of surprise that bloomed on the Easterling’s face in the instant before the light left his eyes.  Orcs were vermin, expected to fight and die like rats for the likes of Sauron.  Men who joined him were destined for a very special torment, at least in the mind of the woodland prince. 

A veteran of many battles though he was, the fighting before the gates was the fiercest Legolas had ever seen.  The hordes of orcs, goblins, and men sworn to evil kept coming, wave after wave of mindless fury, essentially unskilled but heavily armed and overwhelming in their sheer numbers.  His head spun nauseatingly as he straightened, and Legolas knew a moment of true despair.  The numerous small wounds that were the price of battle combined to create a concerning loss of blood and the larger laceration on his right thigh was now streaming constantly, despite the hastily tied strip of linen.

 _I don’t intend to die_.

He had flung the retort so easily, his pride pricked by his lover’s seeming lack of confidence in his ability to succeed, and now the words came back to haunt him.

Then ground began to tremble beneath his feet.  The whole world seemed to crash around Legolas as towers collapsed and bolts of fire shot through the sky.  A dark cloud reached out over the plains like a gigantic hand, black and menacing, and then a puff of wind blew it away, revealing blue sky and brilliant sunlight.  A shout went up from the forces allied under Aragorn’s banner, a surge of hope rippling through the company like wind through a field of grass, and Legolas breathed deeply as the edges of his vision began to narrow.  Then, without warning, a large orc rose up before him, grinning triumphantly, and the prince struggled to stay on his feet, howling his frustration to the heavens as the creature’s blade swung back for a killing stroke. 

Not now, not when they were so close to victory.  _Forgive me, Laurë_.

The blow never fell.  The orc’s frozen grin slid off to the side along with his head, Legolas’ arm was caught in a strong grip and he found himself looking into concerned grey eyes.  “That was too close, wood-elf,” Elladan said lightly, ripping a strip off his cloak to bind his friend’s leg.  

“Glorfindel would never forgive us if you came back in pieces,” Elrohir agreed, slipping a supportive arm around the prince’s shoulders.  Legolas chuckled weakly, and his vision went white.

“Catch him, ‘Roh!” Elladan barked, though Legolas heard the shout only vaguely through the roaring in his ears, then strong arms lowered him to the ground and he knew no more. 

Legolas next opened his eyes to dancing white curtains and tall grey boots, and he frowned, trying to reconcile that odd combination with his fragmented memories.  Images of bloody blades and headless bodies flitted before his eyes, and then he remembered the orc, with its cunning grin and pitted blade – but it had not killed him.  He was not dead.  He was reasonably sure of _that_ , if only because of the throbbing, burning pain in his thigh. His neck ached, too, and he quickly gave up trying to turn his head to investigate and went back to sorting his memories.  The twins – Legolas’ frown deepened, his brow furrowing in concentration.  The twins had been there, and Elladan had bound his leg.  His scowl lightened.  Perhaps Elladan was holding vigil and had fallen asleep at his bedside.  But was his wound truly so serious, that the most learned healer in the city must sleep in a chair?

Legolas glanced again at the boots resting on the edge of his cot.  They were unmistakably the boots of the Imladrian guard – tall, shade grey, and perfectly fitted - despite the layer of clinging dust that covered the soles.  But it seemed very unlike Elladan to prop his boots on a patient’s bed.  However roughshod he might be in the wilds, the elder twin was fastidiously clean in the healing halls.  And why would either of the twins be wearing dusty boots in the halls, anyway?  Surely Estel could supply his foster brothers with slippers, now that he was king.

Estel was king.  He must be, or Legolas would be dead.  Therefore, this was Minas Tirith, which explained the dancing white curtains.  Pleased with himself for deducing at least that piece of the puzzle, Legolas addressed the ceiling, his voice raspy with disuse.  “Elladan, why are your boots on my bed?”  Then he thought that perhaps it was Elrohir who was spelling his brother – that made a bit more sense.  The younger twin would have no qualms about propping his boots on a cot in the healing halls.  “Or is that you, Elrohir?”

“You’re close but not there, Lassë,” a familiar voice drawled, the amusement in the words a thin veil over the tension and worry beneath, and Glorfindel’s face, tired and worn but beaming with relief, appeared above him.

“You couldn’t bother to wipe your boots?” Legolas retorted, though he couldn’t keep the smile from his face – or the telling gleam of withheld tears from his eyes.  His smile faded suddenly under his lover’s keen regard.   “I’m sorry, Laurë,” he said soberly.  “I nearly broke my promise to return.  If the twins had not-“

“Hush,” Glorfindel ordered, kneeling beside the cot and silencing Legolas with a lingering kiss.  “All that matters is that you are with me still.”

“But-“ Legolas began obstinately, then his protest was cut off by another kiss, more heated than the last. 

The sound of footsteps and a throat clearing purposefully brought the pair back to the present circumstances.  “Stop mauling my patient, captain,” Elladan said sternly, though his eyes twinkled with both mirth and relief.  “I run a family friendly establishment here.”

Elrohir, arriving just behind his brother, snorted in amusement.  “Don’t let him fool you,” he told Glorfindel in a conspiratorial whisper.  “I walked in on him _instructing_ the lass from the herbalist’s shop just last night.”  His grin broadened as a flush of color pinked his twin’s ears.  “The night before, it was that brawny red-haired captain from Imrahil’s guard bent over the compounding bench.” 

“Some of us,” Elladan shot back good-naturedly, “aren’t free to ply tavern wenches all evening and their barman cousins all night.  I work while you ramble, little brother.  Allow me my leisure, if you please.”

“That’s enough from both of you,” Glorfindel interrupted with the authority that came from having changed their nappies, once upon a time.   “When can I take Lassë back to our rooms?”

“We have rooms?” Legolas asked, his brow wrinkling in confusion.  “How long have you been here? How long have I been out?”

“Long enough,” Glorfindel replied soberly. “I have been here for almost a fortnight, and you were unconscious for nearly that long before I arrived.  It is going on a month since the Black Gate fell.”

“And you still couldn’t find time to clean your boots?” Legolas prodded, his eyes warm and teasing.  Then he sobered and asked, “How did you know?”

“Forget my boots, whelp,” Glorfindel retorted mildly.  “It’s this blasted stone dust.  Gets into everything.”  He reached over and smoothed a hand across the prince’s hair.  “Elrohir sent a hawk as soon as he could get one to light after the battle, and I nearly killed Asfaloth getting here.  He’s still pouting in his stall.”  He turned back to Elladan.  “How long until Lassë can leave the halls?”

The elder twin bit at his lip and bent to check Legolas’ wound.  “Another day or two, if you will promise to _behave_ ,” he said, glancing pointedly from Glorfindel to Legolas.  “If that wound opens again it will be to no good end.”

Legolas nodded - with what Elladan knew from long experience to be completely false acceptance of the terms - and the deal was made.  By the next evening Legolas had badgered both Elladan and the assistants to madness, achieving his intended aim.  As he slowly walked to his new chambers, supported by Glorfindel and trailed by a protesting healer who had wanted him carried on a litter, he grinned triumphantly into his lover’s shoulder.   

The rooms were warm and cozy despite the vaulted stone ceilings, and a light dinner stood waiting on the small table in the sitting room, though more promising to Legolas’ eyes was the turned down bed he glimpsed through the half open bedroom door.  A quick meal and a quicker wash later, Legolas was ensconced in the bed with a wicked gleam in his eyes.  “Join me?”

“It is a bit early,” Glorfindel pointed out, trying and failing utterly to keep his distance.   He came to sit on the edge of the bed.  “I need to write a few letters.  Elrond will be heading this way soon, though I suspect Estel is still uncertain as to who will accompany him.”

Legolas sighed, torn between his gladness for his friend and his empathy for Elrond.  “It is decided, then.  Arwen will stay.”

Glorfindel nodded soberly.  “Elrond is an elf of his word, and he promised he would give his consent to the marriage if Estel succeeded in this quest.”  He swallowed hard.  “It will be a day of both great triumph and great tragedy.”

“But today there is only triumph,” Legolas murmured, leaning over to nip at his lover’s jaw, “and I want a proper reunion.”

“Lassë, remember what Elladan-“

His words of warning cut off summarily by a torrid kiss, Glorfindel gave into the inevitable.  “At least lie still and let me take care of you,” he breathed against his lover’s mouth, and was answered by an agreeable hum of approval.

In the moments to follow, Legolas was aware only of skin sliding against skin, sensitive parts bumping and grinding and colliding again, forcing heartfelt moans from his throat, the echoing sounds of Glorfindel’s groans teasing his ears.  Mouth and fingers and tongue engulfed and stroked and fluttered as his lover pleasured him and, when the teasing touches ended too soon, Legolas would have protested the loss had Glorfindel not suddenly sheathed him in one smooth motion, forcing a shout from his throat.  Bolts of pleasure shot up Legolas’ spine, the knot tightened in his belly and he forced his eyes open, watching Glorfindel raise and lower himself with excruciating slowness, long, rocking glides that caused his hair to brush Legolas’ chest.

Glorfindel trembled with the strain, leaning back to brace a hand on Legolas’ uninjured thigh as his movements became more frantic.  “Now?” he ground out, meeting his lover’s darkened eyes.

“Now,” Legolas growled,  his fingers digging into Glorfindel’s hips as he thrust up sharply once, twice, then buried himself deeply and held on, his hips bucking erratically as he rode out his release.  Legolas pried one hand free and wrapped his fingers around his lover’s cock, his fist pumping in a broken rhythm until suddenly Glorfindel cursed explosively, shuddering again and again as he spilled. 

Snickering breathlessly, Glorfindel collapsed beside the prince.  “Will that do as a proper reunion?” he teased, brushing back his lover’s sweat damp hair, and Legolas’ lips curled in a wolfish grin.

“For a start.”

“Lassë,” Glorfindel chided, “remember what Elladan said about your wound. You promised-“

“I did no such thing,” Legolas contradicted with a rich, dark chuckle that made the hair on the back of Glorfindel’s neck stand on end.  “I just nodded.”

*~*~*~*~*


End file.
